


Late

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 13:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: It's Fingon's birthday, and at Barad Eithel they are throwing a celebration for their crown prince. Unfortunately, the only guest Fingon wants to see hasn't turned up yet.





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking fic requests on tumblr, to celebrate 1000 followers there!! This one was a gift for @actualmermaid, who requested Maedhros/Fingon.

It was Fingon’s birthday, or at least it had been.

Now, the bells were chiming midnight, and Fingon – a mostly-empty golden goblet of wine hanging from his fingers, by no means his first of the evening – was standing on the walls of Barad Eithel, the drifting sound of music filtering up from the feasting hall below.

What a way for the crown prince to end the night, he thought. Standing on the wallwalk, slightly drunk, pining something fierce.

No, not pining, he told himself, in the sternest tone he could muster at this stage of the evening. Just…standing out on the castle walls with a drink in his hand, staring into the dark. He was sure there was a difference. 

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the party; the sumptuous banquet, the best that near-peacetime could offer; the musicians, Noldorin and Sindarin melodies mixing together, the comic theatre performance complete with dancers in grotesque balrog masks, spinning real fire on the ends of chained flails. The birthday gifts for Fingon piling up, jewels and fine scented oils, several bottles of finest Mithrim elderflower liquor strong enough to set the head spinning in itself, even were it not infused with a fungal essence promised to give remarkable out-of-body experiences. Bolts of brocade and silk from the weavers of Balar, marzipan and sugared fruit, and a tiny, delicate flask of water from a spring thought sacred by the Avari. Most memorably, a live peacock, that the guards had had to hustle out of the hall when it started screaming and shitting on the floor.

And Fingon’s father had enjoyed the night too, he knew, if only for the chance to fit in a little politics; making informal ties with all his vassal lords, parading his son and the glories of his court and the peace that his rule had brought to his allies. Fingon was glad about that, at least.

But amidst all of it, there was one person that Fingon missed, and thus his pining. Maedhros’ delegation was supposed to arrive in Hithlum several days ago, but despite the constant watch he had ordered on the road along the Sirion, they had not been sighted.

Fingon was not exactly worried, he told himself. The people of Himring were tough and resilient, and the lands were safe, and even if any of the enemy’s spies did dare to come this far south, Maedhros and his people would make short work of them.

So it was a delay, and that only. He was not worried for Maedhros’ safety – or at least so he told himself – but he did miss him terribly. He had even held out hope until the very last moment, until he was dressing earlier in his finery for the feast, picking out the clothes that Maedhros had previously complimented, the scent of pine and almond that he knew Maedhros liked best, working it through his hair and into his skin.

He didn’t know what he was expecting; for Maedhros to make some dramatic entrance, perhaps, slamming open the doors to the hall and scaring the peacock. But he did feel a little let down when all evening, nothing happened at all, and everything went exactly, precisely to plan.

Thus, he had found himself here at the end of the night, standing out on the walls and drinking alone, as the chilly breeze of even a summer night in Hithlum stirred his hair. He swirled the wine in his glass, taking a sip as the bells finished tolling the hour, heralding the fact that today had become tomorrow and it was no longer his birthday. He stayed there until the next hour, and the next, growing a little chilly in the night air, but loath to go inside; that would almost feel like admitting defeat, and Fingon had never been good at that.  

Truth be told though, it was actually very pleasant to be outside; after being filled with revelry for most of the day in honour of the crown prince’s birthday, it had started to grow terribly stuffy in the hall. Above him, the sky was clear, the new moon a fingernail sliver, the stars shimmering brilliantly. He prayed to every Vala that would listen – and some that most definitely wouldn’t – that Maedhros were here so Fingon could be utterly distracted from this paltry display of Varda’s transcendent work, on account of him pushing Maedhros against the nearest wall or other available surface for a good hard fuck.

Fingon sighed at the stars, in the manner that he imagined poets did. On reflection, perhaps he really was pining. _Damn it_. Maybe he should go out and find another dragon to kill; that had helped a bit last time.

He was rather blearily wondering whether dragons could lose their tails and have them grow back like the bright little lizards that darted across the Treelit porch of his house in Tirion, when his musings were interrupted by a cry from the gate guards. It was followed by the sound of the crank that drove the portcullis, the clatter of hooves on the paving stones of the courtyard. Lanterns began to be illuminated far below, bright pinpricks in the darkness below in counterpoint to the starry tapestry above.

And a voice, a guard, calling out to the others: “the Lord of Himring has come! Open the second  gate!”

In his excitement, Fingon turned tail and ran down the stairs to the courtyard, elegant heeled boots and all. He clattered down the stairs – forcing himself to slow down a little lest he trip and fall the rest of the way. But he paused, watching, on the curve of the spiral that led out into the courtyard.

There was Maedhros, riding a horse that had clearly been driven hard, panting and sweating in the cold night air. Maedhros looked nearly as exhausted himself, dressed in dusty, plain travelling clothes, wearing his dinted travelling armour rather than the ceremonial silver and ruby-studded plate he would usually wear to ride into Barad Eithel on an official visit such as this. Not even an eight-pointed star battle standard or the sound of a single three-headed carnyx to mark his arrival. Which counted as extreme subtlety, by Fëanorian standards. It was oddly endearing though; especially when Maedhros looked up, their _osanwe_ link locking back together like the clasp of a necklace just the way it always did, as though they had never been parted for a moment. No words passed between them yet though, just a warm nudge of acknowledgement, something sunlit and sharp and bright with promise.

And then Maedhros was talking to the guards again, showing them his sword, as well as Fingolfin’s seal that he pulled from a pouch at his belt. The guards, understandably on edge at this sudden appearance, were taking a little longer to pass these tokens one to the other, to peer at the stump of Maedhros’ wrist and his scars, and whisper amongst themselves.

As they did, Maedhros darted another covert gaze up at Fingon, allowing himself a longer look this time.

He was too far away to hear, but Fingon took great satisfaction in the soft little noise that he imagined Maedhros made when their eyes met and he took in Fingon’s appearance. He could see Maedhros’ silver eyes travel over his braids, hung with jewels for the occasion, the gold carefully painted around his eyes and on his lips, his embroidered mantle swirling behind him, pinned to the shoulders with two sapphires as big as duck’s eggs. His tunic, also encrusted with diamonds and lesser gems, the gaps between embroidered thickly with golden thread on heavy velvet the colour of the rippling ocean in the Treelight. He looked good, if he did say so himself, and Maedhros – windswept, wearing old leathers and boots spattered to the thighs with mud, and utterly beautiful still for it – looking at him like that was making it feel like it was all more than worth the effort.

Fingon had left the tunic slightly more open at the collar than was conventional, the warmth of the daytime hours lending him a little plausible deniability, should he want it. But the true satisfaction came now, as he watched Maedhros’ eyes immediately slip away from his finery, to the collar of skin exposed at his throat. Fingon grinned, swallowing deliberatly so that the apple of his throat bobbed, and then had to stifle a chuckle as Maedhros – predictably – bit his lip. But only for a moment, before Maedhros flashed him a slightly reproachful look: _you’re doing that on purpose_ , came the feeling of Maedhros’ voice, in his head.

_Of course. I always do everything on purpose_ , Fingon replied, his grin widening.  

_Flirt_.

Fingon affected a pout. _I can stop, if it’s distract_ _ing_ _you. I understand if you can’t handle i_ _t._

_You know I can handle_ _you_ _. Don’t_ _ever_ _stop._

Fingon smiled in satisfaction, as the guards finally appeared satisfied that Maedhros really was who he said he was, and finally let him through. “Apologies milord” said one, with a deep bow. “Not so often the Lord of Himring himself comes riding in out of the night, and all alone too.”

“No offence taken” said Maedhros, face immediately setting back into its usual steely demeanour as he peered down his nose at the guards. “Being overcautious about those who are not who they say they are will save us, if anything will. Just last spring at Himring we had an incursion – a thrall of Angband. Thirty-four dead, the enemy’s message written in their entrails in the outer court in the six and a half minutes before we could put an end to it. You _always_ check.”

“R-Right you are” said the guard, quailing a little under Maedhros’ gaze. “Uh,” he gestured with his halberd, having apparently lost his train of thought. “In you go, milord. Shall I have someone wake the King and tell him of your arrival?”

“No, thank you” said Maedhros. “I shall make my presence known to him in the morning.” He looked up, meeting Fingon’s eyes from across the courtyard.

“Then, shall I have someone escort you to your usual rooms?”

“That won’t be necessary.” His eyes locked on Fingon’s again for a brief moment, sending an anticipatory frisson down Fingon’s spine. “I know my way.”

The guard – Arahir, Fingon remembered, was his name - glanced back and noticed Fingon standing on the stairs where they turned, and nodded, gesturing the others back to their posts. “Ahem. Right you are milord. There is still food and drink leftover from the celebrations, if you would be so inclined. Otherwise, you are as always an honoured guest of King Fingolfin.”

Maedhros nodded, letting his horse be led away to the stables. He crossed the courtyard in measured strides. He walked evenly, with straight back and jaw held up just so. Fingon thought idly that it was likely that very few people could tell how Maedhros was working to suppress the urge to break into a run across the rest of the distance. But Fingon knew him better, knew how, below the ice and iron-clad dignity and poise that the eldest son of Fëanor must maintain, there lay the man who had traveled through the night alone for reasons wholly unrelated to diplomacy, but had more to do with ripping off Fingon’s fine clothes, casting the jewels aside and trailing hot kisses down his chest. Of holding him all night, and telling him he loved him in the dark when everything else was still and silent, enshrouded by peace. Waking with the sunlight streaming in and falling on their skin, pressed close together at long last, warmth held between the two of them. Standing side by side on the walls, or going out riding in the rippling green hills, hawking on the banks of the Sirion. Just living, enjoying the simple act of being together, then falling into bed when night came and doing it all again.  

The corner of Fingon’s mouth curled as he walked a step or two back up the staircase. _Let him work a little more for it._

Maedhros came up beside him after a moment, kneeling on the steps before him. “Prince Fingon” he said, in a carrying voice obviously calculated to be seen as appropriate for consumption by the guards. “My apologies for missing the celebration of your birthday. The river burst its banks near Tol Sirion, the ford completely impassible with the whole entourage and our wagons and carts, but just about possible on my own, but I had to take a long detour.” He bowed his head. “Please forgive me my lateness, and my poor entrance.”

Fingon sighed, feeling a rush of affection as Maedhros kissed his ring three times in a small triangle shape, the conventional way it was done for apologies to a higher authority for a momentous breach of propriety, by the conventions of the Mithrim and many of the Sindarin peoples that made up a large contingent of the population of Barad Eithel. _Always trying to keep up appearances_ , he thought at Maedhros, with an affectionate shake of the head. _It’s half dark and a terrible hour of th_ _e night_ _. You already thoroughly_ _intimidated_ _the night guards. I don’t imagine the political implications will be too_ _dire_ _if you_ _just_ _treat me like a person_.

He felt Maedhros smile secretly, against his hand. _Oh, is that your attitude to it?_ _Your mountains of elaborate gifts may still be stuck at that blasted ford, and it_ _may not be your birthday anymore, but_ _I would have hoped you’d settle for me on my knees as your_ _interim present._

Fingon felt himself blush like an overeager adolescent. It was the wine, he told himself. He cleared his throat, speaking out loud this time. “Rise, Lord Maedhros. Your apology is accepted.” He tilted his arm to Maedhros, who was standing a few steps below him. “It is late. Shall we then retire?”

Maedhros took his arm, with a a smile allowed Fingon to lead him up the stairs and to his rooms.


End file.
